


Checkout

by grumpynymph



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Cashier Waylon AU, I don't condone grocery store stalking, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:26:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpynymph/pseuds/grumpynymph
Summary: Waylon needs a raise, or an advil. Preferably both.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I only wrote this to seriously publish the line "it's buy one get one free, you fucking nuisance." 
> 
> have fun

Waylon hated his job.

Not because the pay was shit. Not because Kelly refused to bring in anything but gluten free grass fed vegan brownies. Not even because his boss’s ass was tighter than Michael Jackson’s skinny jeans.

No, he loathed waking up every day for a very different reason, and that reason had a name.

Or, he probably did. They had never managed to get that far, luckily.

Being a cashier at Murkoff's Bagged Goods; the multimillion trinational grocery store franchise that’s been involved in _five_ child slavery scandals to date was hard enough without any other distractions.

Unfortunately, life made a hobby of fucking Waylon in the ass, and a stalker customer he got.

It started on a rainy Tuesday, like any other rainy Tuesday in Colorado. Dressed like he was seven years late to a wedding, and buying a package of manila cookies and paper towels, the man had approached Waylon’s register armed with the creepiest smile his Christian eyes had ever been disgraced with, and a dusty bowtie he suspected had been passed down from Abraham Lincoln.

“Good evening, ah- Waylon. Lovely name,” had been his greeting, which in retrospect should’ve been a warning in itself, but Waylon was focused on getting that five cent raise, and to hell if he was going to lose it to a man in a bowtie. Checking him out quickly and shoving the items in a cramped paper bag, he allowed himself a breath of relief when the pair of squared shoulders disappeared through the automatic doors.

Five weeks of twice a day visits and seven receipts with an address on the signature line later, he wasn’t so concerned about the raise.

“You should go to the address, just once to see what it is. Bet it’ll be the BDSM dungeon downtown.” His friend Miles (the “Specialty Mechanic”) had joked one time as they were watching the burly figure pace the aisles, waiting for Waylon to appear.

“I don’t even want to know how you know about that, I’m telling Jeremy I’m sick and going out the back door.” Had been his quick response before fleeing. Being forced to join some sort of bondage cult was _not_ the first thing on his to do list. 

However, a month in, the act started to lose it’s novelty.

“Good morning to you, darling Waylon. How has your day been so far?" Two cartons of eggs and a box of latex gloves were placed on the checkout platform. He died a little inside.

"Yeah, peachy," he grumbled, grabbing the opposite end of a container and snatching it out from under the man's lingering hand. "Paper, right?"

"Oh, you know me so well," his stalker placed a hand over his heart, grinning at the shorter cashier. "What time are you released from this dirty place? Soon, I hope. It's not fit for something as lovely as you to be trapped here all day long." 

He narrowed his eyes. "Your total is $2.98." 

A flicker of panic flit across the man's face as he struggled to find something else to waste his time with. "Ah- well see you've undercharged me. Two cartons of eggs, $1.99 each. I wouldn't want to take any money from you." 

"It's buy one get one free, _you fucking nuisance,_ " he hissed under his breath, shoving the bag towards the muscular form.

And then the awkward smile was gone, and his well-meaning customer was replaced with someone even stranger. A hand shot over the cash register and buried itself in his shirt, and suddenly he was bent over the counter, inches away from a furious undercut.

"Rude doesn't look quite as good on you as white would, my dear Park. I'd suggest you change before my next visit, yes?" The words were growled through gritted teeth directly into his ear, but loud enough for the old priest being checked out in the next aisle to swivel around and watch. 

Body rigid in a mixture of shock and terror of what those giant hands could actually do to him, Waylon could only nod, fist still clutching the handles to the man's bag.

He could feel the smile against his cheek as fingers closed gingerly over his own, the other arm releasing the handful of fabric only after his goods were safely transferred. 

"Mm, I'll look forward to it then." The man seemed to revel in the sight of the disheveled employee a moment longer, before spinning on his heel and stalking out of the store, leaving all eyes to fall on Waylon. Customers switched lines. 

He was able to find comfort in the fact that the day could not physically get any worse for around five minutes.

'SMACK'

As he was checking out an elderly woman, a gloved hand landed firmly on his ass.

"Shit! Fuck, I'm sorry ma'am- what the hell Jeremy? Wait, fu-" 

"Hello Park, nice to see you at work for once." Mr. Blaire, his second to last least favorite person, stripped off his motorcycle gloves and shoved them in his jacket, throwing an arm over the man's shoulders. There was definitely booze on his breath.

"Yeah, ha ha. What do you want?" Waylon often wondered how he was able to keep from dying of alcohol poisoning daily.

"I just took a look at the security tapes, and that was quite a disruption earlier, hm?" Before he could open his mouth to defend himself, his manager pressed a finger to his lips. "Tell you what, you can make it up to me by working overtime, say, six hours on Christmas?"

"But-"

"Oooor, I could just give your little friend your complete work schedule." 

"...What time should I come in?"

"There's my corporate clone. See you at four thirty AM, sharp." 

Perhaps it was that mirror he broke in tenth grade, or perhaps it was God punishing him for quitting Bible Study a year early. In any case, Waylon was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me if you'd like me to finish/continue this i guess? 
> 
> any insight on what the fuck ed does all day when he's not polluting the store with his sin is welcome


End file.
